


Burning Bright

by Dracorex



Series: TLC [2]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Character Study, Delven is a shipper on deck, Established Relationship, Help, Huath likes it anyway, I don't even know what to tag for, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Spoilers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scourge is pushy and manipulative, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 20:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16182869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracorex/pseuds/Dracorex
Summary: “If we were not out in the open here, I would have you right now. You cannot imagine how close I am to disregarding it anyway.”





	Burning Bright

“No!” 

Huath’s tone is indignant, but Scourge had felt the rush of heat that seared through the Jedi at his words. The Sith Lord savours it, just as he savours replaying in his mind’s eye the deadly beauty that was Jedi Battlemaster Huath in combat - the swift grace with which he had scythed through all in his path, the blue fire of his twin sabers striking like lightning, the scent of charred flesh that even now lingers about them. 

And after all, Scourge is only able to enjoy such a scene because _Huath_ enjoys it. 

The adrenaline rush of danger, the exhilaration of doing something he excels at, the pride of knowing _none of you can stand in my way_ ; these are all emotions that Huath was feeling, is still breathing hard from, emotions that Scourge is tasting at secondhand, like warming cold flesh at a blazing fire. 

He can sense guilt too, the heavy, bitter tang of the Jedi’s belief that he shouldn’t feel this way, still unpleasant and pointless but entirely unsurprising after all this time - can see it in the awkward shift of Huath’s feet, as he scuffs one boot across the sandy ground, and the way those storm-blue eyes look away, refusing to meet his gaze. There is anger, too, Huath’s frustration at himself, and his annoyance at Scourge for provoking him, anger that Scourge always wants for how searing bright it feels, even though sometimes it spills over and burns. 

Most importantly, Scourge feels Huath’s defiance, and knows the direction of it from the fact that the young man has not already walked away from him. His ‘no’ isn’t necessarily a refusal.

But it’s not a ‘yes’ yet, unfortunately. “You cannot lie to me, boy,” he says pointedly, taking a deliberate step forward, into his space. “I know you want it.”

Huath turns a steely glare up at him, refusing to back away. The Knight is of average height by human standards, which means Scourge still gets to look down on him. “I didn’t know you had a thing for people watching you-”

“I have no issue with it; you are mine.” Calculated to provoke, the statement is technically true, in that Scourge does not care what anyone else should think, and that Huath _is_ his - but the full truth would be that he has no issue with slaughtering any potential witnesses to what belongs between them, and also that he knows he possesses only what Huath chooses to cede; what might have grated on his pride once is now something he treasures being able to feel at all, the taste that is no taste, the lightness of freedom, of being able to choose.

Not that the boy needs to know that; predictably, he sputters with outrage. “I- you- urgh!” He jabs a finger at Scourge’s face. “Not out here like this!”

Scourge just watches him expectantly. Huath snarls his next words through gritted teeth. “We don’t even have lube!”

An approaching being makes them both turn. It’s Shadowguard. The onetime Dark Councillor has an unmistakeable Force presence, but it is as difficult as usual to read even the Commander’s surface emotions. He’s stopped far enough away to not have heard a word, but the flicker of expressions across what little of his face can be seen suggests he might have caught the gist anyway. “What is it?” Scourge greets him brusquely; he wonders if Huath’s sudden internal conflict is apparent to the other Sith.

Shadowguard’s thin lips actually twitch with amusement. “Master Huath. Lord Scourge. I thought I might invite the two of you to join me on my ship for the trip back to Odessen instead of crowding back onto the Alliance shuttle. I came alone, so I have a spare bedroom.”

“Excuse me?!” Huath says sharply; Scourge knows the Knight is covering for his total shock.

“Oh no, I must insist,” Shadowguard carries on airily; a lesser man might have sounded mocking, but Scourge can sense only sincerity and that damnable thread of cheerfulness. “Furthermore, I think I’m about to go temporarily deaf and will have no idea what you’re planning to do. Come on.” 

With that, the sorcerer turns on his heel and walks away. Scourge is unsure what he would like to do to Shadowguard, possibly because Huath is experiencing a similar crisis of opinion. Embarrassment vies with sheer rage, and as Scourge turns to see the struggle play out visibly on Huath’s face, pale cheekbones going faintly pink, he considers what sort of outcome he would personally prefer.

“Why not?” he purrs. The boy’s hand is still half-raised from before; he takes his wrist, armguard and all, in a tight grip just for the physical reminder.

Easy as fanning a flame, fury and _want_ blaze up. Huath snarls wordlessly, wrenching his arm away and stalking off - in the direction of Shadowguard’s ship.

Smirking, Scourge follows.

****

When they board, Shadowguard is nowhere to be seen; there is a pulse of acknowledgement from his Force presence, a ripple across the gentle surface of a fathomless sea, but the door to the cockpit stays closed. Huath’s seething seems to ratchet up, though he continues to stand there uncertainly. Scourge glances around at the familiar layout of a standard Fury-class interceptor, and goes left, entering the first room on the right without hesitation.

The small clear bottle on the desk is a clear act of provocation. Scourge thinks he might have felt something at the sight of it.

He is setting his gauntlets down when Huath comes in. The fire is already giving way to trepidation within the Jedi, which Scourge immediately rectifies by shoving him down over the desk. Huath catches himself, of course, but he stays half bent over, and there is plenty of heat in his voice. “Scourge, you asshole, what-”

“You know how this works, boy,” he says archly, unbuckling his belt.

“Enough with the ‘boy’,” Huath growls, even as he fumbles at his own belt. “You sound like a fucking paedophile.”

It turns Huath on anyway, and they both know it, but Scourge supposes today is different. “You were magnificent out there, Huath.” 

He can only borrow the embers of how that pride should feel, smouldering within Huath’s own shaky self-image, and try to put the warmth of it into his words, but he’s had lifetimes of practice at knowing how to pitch his tone just right. And it works, judging by the full-body shudder and corresponding flare of tangled emotional responses.

That just might go either way, so Scourge leans over, left hand gripping Huath by the back of his neck, pushing him down a little further. “Shall I speak of what I think of you?” he whispers.

Huath drags in a strangled breath. “Don’t keep me waiting,” he manages to get out.

“You are so _alive_ ,” Scourge tells him, and as the shock of it sears through the young man, the Sith shifts, pulls down Huath’s trousers, and presses the lube-slick fingers of his other hand between his legs to stroke firmly over his entrance.

With a gasp, Huath tilts his head back, hips shifting. Scourge had been thinking of how they usually do this, quick and rough against the nearest surface after a sparring session, but now he finds he wants to take his time; slow teasing strokes without even breaching him yet. Huath’s fingertips scrape over the surface of the desk, then curl tight into fists. The Sith Lord measures out his words, each silky syllable carefully shaped.

“Every time you draw your blades, it is a sight to behold. Your power, your fury, your will.” He punctuates that last word by finally sliding a finger into Huath, who moans, clenching up around him before managing to make himself begin to relax.

Scourge is vaguely aware of his own arousal, like a candle in hand next to a true fire throwing off almost enough heat to scorch. It is still enough to roughen his voice and to let him remember how he can twist his finger, eliciting a choked noise. “No matter how great your rage, you have never truly given in to it. Infuriating, and admirable.”

“Scourge,” Huath says. Whines, really, a desperate, drawn-out questioning sound. The Sith interrupts whatever Huath might have tried to follow it up with by pulling out and thrusting back in with two fingers. The younger man is breathing hard, and practically thrumming with emotion - lust, excitement, anger, always the aching undertone of guilt and fear, but also a confused delight at the praise.

“Quick and bright and dangerous,” Scourge tells him steadily, “like my own wildfire.” He watches as Huath trembles, how when he withdraws, Huath’s hips rock slightly and he shifts his feet, widening his stance. He can feel how eager Huath is, and it resonates within himself, a reflection of how much he would have craved this once, what he is now only able to want because Huath wants it. Remote as his own feelings are, he still knows that he dislikes the bitterness of that thought; at least it is still easy to push aside. “Beg me for it.”

There is the hesitation, as always, because Huath’s rebellious attitude has seen him through defying everyone from the Jedi Council to the Sith Emperor, an attitude which Scourge enjoys the white-hot spark of as much as what follows. “ _Please_.”

“Please, what?” Scourge drawls, pouring more lubricant over his hand and taking himself in hand.

Huath’s head drops down between his arms, and his shoulders heave as he pants for breath. They’ve been over this before, though; he lifts his face and the need in his voice is as clear as every word. “Please - fuck me.”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Scourge sighs in satisfaction, taking Huath by the back of his neck once more and dragging him over to the bed; the Jedi goes along willingly if clumsily, allowing himself to be pushed down once more. The new position puts Huath’s ass at a nicer angle, and the moment Scourge has notched himself into place, he presses home in a single firm, steady motion. Huath muffles his cry in the satiny amethyst sheets.

“None of that, now,” the Sith growls, left hand shifting to grasp at that sleek head of black hair and pull. Huath’s head tilts back obediently, accompanied by a thin moan of pain - and another surge of fierce arousal.

Scourge is actually unsure how long they spend like this: Huath helplessly rocking back against him while making soft noises, Scourge leaning forward to brace himself against the bed with one arm, the other hand letting go of Huath’s hair to wind around and take him by the throat, feeling the frantic pulse under his fingers. Like this, he feels _warmth_ once more, heat and life and sensation, remembers what it is to want-

-and then he is _taking_ him, driving a moan from Huath with each hard thrust. If each sharp little _ah_ is a wordless plea for mercy, Scourge is delighting in disregarding them, not least because he knows exactly how much pleasure and pain the man under him is feeling. Huath’s knuckles are white where he grips handfuls of the sheets tight, and Scourge hopes his grip on Huath’s hips will leave bruises. Actually, he’s certain he will; the sympathetic pain is already an echoing ache in his own flesh, along with the ache of how badly Huath wants a hand on his cock, which Scourge is also disregarding because he means to drag this out as long as possible, while Huath cannot do anything but take it because he can’t think further than keeping himself braced up-

-until Huath bucks under him with the first pulse of his release, and Scourge wraps a rough hand around Huath’s cock to help him along, the white-out pleasure of it taking Scourge himself over the edge too.

Huath remains slumped bonelessly on the bed when Scourge finally lifts his head to eye him; he had sunk to his knees behind the younger man, half-laying beside him. He can feel the hum of the ship's engines, and somehow, he does not mind that he had not noticed when exactly they had lifted off. “I feel disgusting,” the Jedi groaned weakly. Given the fortunate lack of self-recriminating feelings at the moment, Scourge assumes he means the physical mess.

“I do not care,” Scourge replies, quietly gleeful.

“Fuck you,” Huath mutters, unable to muster much irritation. “You’re not the one-” he cuts himself off awkwardly.

“Lying in your own mess?” Scourge fills in blandly. “Filled with my come?”

“Shut up.”

Scourge does pause for a moment. “On Shadowguard’s bed.”

That gets a reaction, though Huath does not make it further than a few centimetres before sinking back down, and neither his outrage nor his mortification manage to be more than simmering coals. “Ugh. I hate you so much.”

Scourge just laughs, and is pleased at his own ability to do so.

**Author's Note:**

> I smashed this out over the past six hours in one go, literally. It is 6.45am in the morning and I either have all the regrets or none whatsoever.


End file.
